The Defiler
by ChaosWithImagination
Summary: The Pale Orc has haunted the memories and stories of the Dwarves for many long years. But What of his origins? What of his harsh life? And What are the things he had done to earn his feared name? The name of Azog The Defiler.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HOBBIT

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Garah hugged her swollen belly with one arm while she scrambled away from the camp. She stopped behind an outcrop of rocks and allowed herself a soft hiss of pain. She leaned her forehead against the rock, rocking herself slowly till the spasms that gripped her belly passed. The last spasm caused her to cry out and she quickly covered her mouth. She muttered a curse at the fates that had taken away her spouse from her. Stupid Gragg. Too much pride and too little brains. She hoped that his offspring would not come out like that. But would be both strong and wise.

She looked back to the camp hoping that no one had noticed her gone. She had lied and told them that she was not due for another three months, when she knew that she was due in but a few days. She had seen the silent shadows moving about the camp at night when the journey had begun; looking for those that were becoming weak or sickly. Those that they had placed a mark on had disappeared and suddenly the camp had meat in the stew. Then things had gotten worst; troublesome members that spoke against the chief, ones that complained a little too much on the road, and worst of all sometimes a child or two, all had gone missing only to end up in the stew. Garah swallowed the bile that rose into her mouth. She had eaten the stew when it had been the old and weak. She had eaten it when the troublesome and complainers had been in it. But when she found the small bones that could never be a wolf or a deer or a bird she had to swallow both fear and disgust with every mouthful.

Things were harder now than it was then. She knew for sure that if they found out her child would be marked and then she would have to eat the flesh of her flesh. And that would never happen. This child was special. She was sure of it the first time he had kicked in her belly and her body had vibrated from the force of it. He would be a great Orc Chief and she, Garah, would see it done.

She took a deep breath again, cast a last look at the camp and ran again. She crossed rock and stream until she reached a low hillock of barren rock. A small cave stood out; a blacker shadow against the black of the rock; into which a small stream diverted its course and then ran out again. She looked back to the camp. It was now a small dull orange glow in the otherwise black land. Then she ducked into the cave. The cave was high and wide enough that she had to stretch her arms out in all directions to touch the walls. She gave a satisfied snort and then settled down to wait. She sat with her back against the rock, her feet facing the small stream and the small bag of supplies by her side. From her position she was lying at an angle to the opening and her eyes traced the stars of the sky.

Then a very familiar group of stars began their slow descent. "The Scimitar," Garah said smiling softly before the pain hit her. She grabbed a hold of the hard earth beneath her grounding her teeth together. This was the worst of the spasms that she ever had. Her mouth opened in a silent wail of pain as another spasm ripped through her. She felt her body begin to tremble then a soft _splooshing_ sound reached her ears and she felt a hot wetness between her legs. She sat up awkwardly and looked to see a dark liquid spreading out from under her. The time had come. Her child was ready to be born.

With shaking hands she undressed and quickly rummaged through the bag for the things she would need. She paused and bit into her arm until the spasms passed. Her belly felt heavy and leaden. She pulled out the knife and a bundle of clean soft cloth. She laid them side by side and then leaned back again. She bent her knees and spread her legs wide as she had seen other Orc females do; then she gritted her teeth against the horrible stretching pain that began to engulf her. She grunted in throaty grunts as the spasms began rolling in faster and faster.

Sometime during another soft wail of pain she remembered that she had to push to get her offspring out. She steeled herself and fixed her eyes on the point of Scimitar as it sank slowly to slice into the dark horizon. Then when the next wave of pain rolled in she grunted a long and low and pushed with all her might. Her legs trembled violently and her grunts gave way into a harsh scream as the stretching sensation became almost unbearable. She took in a ragged breath and pushed again. Again she screamed; her lower body felt like it was being torn asunder.

She convulsed and fell back with her head resting against the floor. The spasms were like one constant wave of pain with just tiny lulls to show when one started and the other began. She placed both hands on the top of her belly and abandoned all semblance of safety she screamed loud into the night and pressed her hands down and pushed. Her voice echoed in the cave almost deafening her. The stretching pain was now beyond description and still her child would not come. She glared in single minded intent at the Scimitar and pressed and pushed again. Her throat began to feel raw and she tasted a bitter metallic taste in her mouth. She glanced away from the sky and into the dark of the cave.

"Great Angmar," she wheezed, "how is this going to last!" She gave a choked scream at the roof of the cave. Her eyes were losing their focus. She fixed her sight on the gleaming blade and wondered if she would have to take a knife to her belly to cut him out of her when a powerful spasm hit her. She knew instinctively that this was the one. IF she did not get him out with this wave she would lose him. She leaned her head back and let out such a scream that she felt the wall in the cave shake. She pressed her hands down and pushed harder than she ever had before. For a second she felt that she had failed and then the stretching pain went up a notch higher and the scream stuck in her throat. Then all of sudden it was as if she had been released from a vise and the pain went away. A sick wet sucking sound echoed in the cave and her body went limp.

Garah lay panting, her breath misting in front her face. She turned to see the Scimitar sinking into the horizon. She licked her lips and sat up to see what her new born looked like. She froze as she gazed at the form that lay wrapped in blood and thick slime like fluid. He was large. Much larger than other Orc babies. But the most outstanding thing was that he was Pale. Like the colour of the moon. She reached down and picked him up, the thick birth line following him. She laid his down between her legs and quickly slashed the birth line and tied it shut. Then she took hold of the part that was leading out of her. Her fingers had barely enough energy to wrap around it. Then with a deep breath she gave one vicious pull and rest of the birth sac flowed out of her with a nasty wet slosh and nauseating slippery sensation. She tossed aside the birth sac and turned back to her son.

He was looking up at her with clear gray eyes. Another strange quality in him. She reached down and stroked his cheek. He gave a noise halfway between a cry and growl and Garah smiled.

"Welcome to Middle Earth, Azog my Son," she whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HOBBIT

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Garah watched her son pull the deer up to their campsite and begin to skin it. At the tender age of seven he was already almost as tall as she was and much bigger and powerfully built that his Orc kin. The flames of the fire lit his skin red and made him look even more ethereal than he normally looked. He looked back at her and smiled; his eyes reflections of the fire both within and without. She smiled back at him and went back to her work. They both bore the stigma that had clung to them ever since she birthed him with patience and a slow building ambition. She had walked back to the camp stark naked and still wreathed in her blood, carrying Azog in one arm and her knife in the other. When the warriors had taken a step toward her she had held the knife in front of her and said in a calm steady voice.

"Anyone that so much as looks at my son, touches my son or speaks to my child with the intention of taking him from me, I will put your eyes out, cut your arm off and rip your tongue out." Then she had paused and continued.

"And if you doubt my words. Try it." Three foolish warriors had tried it. One of them now sported one eye, the other was now missing three fingers from one hand and four from the other. The last died from choking on his blood. She had never been a very violent Orc female before, but she became one now. She had to become like that. She had a Chief to train.

"When you are done, you will go to the training area," she said without looking up.

She heard his sigh; a deep throaty sound. He did not have the high voices like all young Orcs, but a deep rumbling voice that seemed to boom from the depths of his soul.

"They don't let me do anything," Azog said ripping his knife out and away, and pulling the skin off the deer with a viciousness that matched his frustration, "How can they expect me to learn how to fight if they will not let me even hold a wood branch let alone a scimitar?"

"Watch and memorize," Garah said, "Then come back and I will have your branch ready." Azog looked at her, his clear eyes held her own dark ones for a long second and then he nodded.

Garah continued with her work until Azog left for the training area. Then she stopped what she was doing and went to sift through their pile of firewood till she found one that suited her purposes. She sat back down before the fire and began to carve it into the rough shape of a scimitar with the same knife that she had used to sever his birth line that night seven years ago.. A deep hot rage burned at the unfair treatment of her child. But she knew that while it would hurt Azog to bear it; bear it he would. And he would use it fuel him as he had done all these long years. That much she had taught him and by the cruel hand of Angmar, she had taught him well.

Garah was putting the finishing touches on the wooden scimitar when she heard a low roar and a shout. Suddenly Orcs were moving swiftly towards the training area, flooding around her as if she wasn't even there. Garah didn't even look up as they thronged around her. She passed the knife for a few more flicks, clearing out the last of the splinters. Then she got up and made her way to the crowds.

She slipped into the darkness just outside the line of torches around the large open area where the Orc warriors trained the younger Orcs to kill. In the middle of the arena Azog was being held by a tall strong young Orc; his arms twisted behind his back. Her son's face was contorted with pain and anger. The Orc Captain was pacing in front of him, not taking his eyes of the young pale Orc.

"I told you what would happen if you came back here," the captain said his voice dripping with contempt, "You are not natural and therefore you will not be taught the way all normal Orcs will be taught. I told you that if you came back here and wanted to learn the only way would be by experience." Then he stopped suddenly and struck Azog across his face. Her son jerked to the side at the force of the blow. She heard the grunt of his pain and saw him struggle to get back upright. The young Orc holding him laughed and pulled his arms back tighter.

"When you are held captive by Elves or dwarves or men," the captain began pacing again, "they will not spare you. They will hurt you."

He stopped and kicked Azog on the stomach making him retch. The crowds laughed.

"They will bleed you,"

A blinding arc of silver flashed and Azog cried out. Garah saw a thin red line form on his chest. Again Orcs in the crowd jeered at her son and encouraged the Orc Captain.

"They will mutilate you," the Captain said leaning in as if to whisper the words but his voice was loud enough for all to hear. Garah saw her son's eyes widen as the knife fanned in front of his face. He jerked his head in all directions, dodging the small thrusts that the Orc Captain was making at his face. His breath began to come in harsh pants and when the knife nicked his cheek he gave a yelp.

Garah saw him scanning the crowd frantically with his eyes. She knew he was looking for her. She stepped forward a little so that the torch light would show her to the roaming clear eyes. Suddenly he spotted her. She saw the plead for help in his eyes. Angmar help her, she wanted to rush in and save him but this was a golden opportunity. This was a chance for him to break out of the stigma of contempt that followed him like a stench. So instead of pushing through the crowds, jumping the area rope and tearing that Orc Captain to pieces, she held out her hands. In her left, she held the wooden scimitar and in the right, she held her knife. She looked at the two items then looked back at him. She saw him follow her gaze and lock his own gaze with hers. Only a second must have passed, but for Garah it seemed like an eternity and then she saw it. The clear eyes of her son began to turn black. Garah smiled. He understood.

The Orc Captain moved, grabbing Azog by the head and held him firm. He leaned in close to thrust the blade of knife once again. Then Garah saw him look into the eyes of her son. And she knew he saw death. Azog smiled once and with a roar, jerked forward and bit down hard on the Orc Captain's face. The whole crowds went into shocked silence. The shrill scream of the Captain shattered the silence and the young Orc that was holding Azog jerked back with a scream of his own as Azog yanked his head back and black thick blood spurted out from the Captain's face. The Captain dropped the knife and clawed at his face to stop the blood. In one swift motion, Azog spat out the flesh of the Captain and grabbed the knife. A soft whistle played in the night air as the blade cut cleanly across the throat of the Orc Captain. Then Azog turned on his heel and with a guttural roar, plunged the blade to its hilt in the chest of the Orc that had held him.

The young Orc looked down at his chest in surprise and the with a wet gurgling sound, black blood bubbled out of his mouth and splattered over his chin. Then he fell forward onto the hilt and lat still. Azog looked down at the body and then he slowly looked up and around at all the Orcs present. Then he licked his lips and smiled.

Garah felt her heart would burst with pride as her son walked towards her. He came and stood in front of her and she dropped her eyes to meet intense black ones. She shuddered involuntarily at the cold hatred that emanated from them. Then slowly they cleared back into the ones that were of her son. He reached out and took the wooden scimitar. She moved to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders and led him back to their camp.


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HOBBIT

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Azog sat looking into the fire. The wooden scimitar beside him was beaten down into a smooth rod of wood. Garah noted it and knew she had to either carve another one for him or get him a real one. Her son was already proficient with the wooden scimitar and the knife that he owned, but he lacked experience with the weight and the deadly form of a real blade. Other young Orcs who had fathers or near male kin already had their blades, but her Azog, robbed of his father and cast out by all, had nothing but a branch and a knife that would hold up pitifully against a scimitar's cruel workmanship.

"Are you going to train today?" she asked him. He shook his head.

"They are going on a raid tonight," he said in that sibilant deep voice of his, "I would be unwelcome. I do not have a blade and…" he paused for a moment, "And I am too visible."

Garah cocked her head to one side. "Too visible?"

Azog gestured with a hand passing over his body.

"I am pale as the moonlight," he said, "I also glow like faint moonlight in the dark. It would be very unwelcome when one is trying to sneak up and raid a village or a band of travelers. They would see me before we even got close."

Garah sighed and pocked the fire with a stick.

"So you will sit and stare at flames while others go out and get the glory and fame," she said. Azog glanced up at her and for a second his clear eyes went black, then he gritted his teeth and glared at the fire.

"What should I do then?" he hissed, "Do you want me to change my skin colour? Hide it with black soot? Skin myself and hide in my blood?" His voice went dark and hoarse.

"Be visible," Garah said, "Haven't we Orcs always hidden in the shadows waiting for other to be unwary before we strike? Haven't we always shied away from the light and dwelt in the darkness, only fighting bravely in numbers?"

Azog looked up at her from hooded eyes that were red from the fire.

"But you are not we Orcs, are you?" Garah said, "You were born with skin like moonlight and a body like a mountain. You were not born to hide the darkness and fight only in safety. You were born to stand tall and stand strong and strike out to take what you want, when you want and from whom you want. All you need is the courage, my son. A little courage, a little wit and a little bloodshed."

Garah smiled at the last sentence as she looked deep into her offspring's eyes. Azog held her gaze for a long time then his lips also spread into a smile. Then he looked back towards the camp.

"I may be gone long," he said, "I will be missed."

"I will miss you," Garah said, "But the others will not. Sometimes Azog, being hated does work in one's advantage."

Her son looked at her his bow creasing for a moment.

"Have you always been like this?" he asked and she knew what he meant. Garah shrugged and poked the fire again.

"I am an Orc," she said, "And I am a mother. Such ways of thinking comes with accepting who and what you are and also by knowing who and what you want to be."

Azog nodded and then picked up his wooden scimitar.

"Give me three days," he said, "If I do not return within three days, then when I do return, you may not claim me as your son."

Garah nodded


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HOBBIT

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Garah waited patiently for the return of her son. She had lied to Azog; the others missed him. It was hard after all to not miss his tall, broad figure but it wasn't his missing presence that gave rise to the uneasiness she felt building around her. It was what that missing presence meant. The truth that only she knew and she also knew that the others were aware of that. She knew they wanted to ask her, and if that didn't work they would make her tell. She was not naive of the ways of her people; if an Orc could not make you talk, you were either of very strong spirit or dead. And here she was at the center of a building storm that could burst at any minute. And she was alone. It was only her actions in protecting her son those many years ago that gave her the thin measure of security she had now. No one had forgotten her ferocity enough to challenge her just yet. But soon she knew they would grow bolder and stronger and she would have to wield the blade again. And maybe in that future time she would not win the fight. But Angmar help her, she would have trained her son to hold his own by that time. If she could not see him become the Chief of Orcs; she would have done all in her power to prepare him for his destiny. If he failed all that; then he was truly not her son.

The first day passed by without event. The camp went about its normal business with just a few hushed whispers concerning the hunt. By the late evening the DireWolf Scouts rode in quickly and went to the Chief; in the next few minutes they were breaking camp and preparing to move out. Garah packed up their meager belongings ignoring the sly glances tossed her way and the not so hushed whispers about her son's fate now that they were leaving. Garah scattered her fireplaces ashes and took the worn wooden scimitar and broke it in half. Then in one swift motion she drove it into the middle of the ashes. She snapped her head up and glared at the Orcs around her, daring them with her gaze to say or do something to provoke her. They all growled softly but turned their heads and busied themselves with their own packing. Garah snorted at the lot of them and strode out to the front of the pack without a backward glance.

They walked most of the night and in her mind Garah tired to plot her son's most possible route from the stories that he had told of his hunting experiences, tried to calculate how long it would take for him to do what he needed to do and then get back to broken camp and further more to catch up with their march. She knew that she should feel some sort of worry, some sort of anxiety but she felt nothing but a strange tension in her chest. It wasn't an uncomfortable feeling; instead it was the feeling one would get just before something either dreadful or amazing happened. A feeling of expectation; the kind that made you feel alive and acutely aware of everything. As the sun came and they group began to look for a place to camp, Garah looked back at their tracks and smiled.

The second night she could feel the tension worsen. It was almost as if everyone as getting infected with the same expecting feeling that she had. But they were not bearing it well, for unlike them, Garah knew what she was expecting. Small fights broke out in the camp and soon Warriors were being sent to break up some of the particularly nasty ones. A fight that had started cloe to her camp site, spilled over into her space. With a disgusted sigh, she kicked them back out of her camp site. The three Orcs spun on her.

"Mother of the abomination," one snarled and spat at Garah's feet.

"Where is your offspring?" the other snarled, "Where have you sent him?"

Garah smiled at the three of them and slipped her knife from her waistband.

"My son, Azog has gone where he needs to be, to do what he needs to do. What those that are higher than you do is none of your concern," Garah replied.

The third screeched at her.

"Higher than us!" he screamed, "What makes him higher than us?"

"Can't you see it just by looking at him," Garah spat at him, "He was born to tower over you. He already does."

The third Orc made to lunge at her. As he stepped forward Garah struck out with a roar. The Orc screeched again and his step back saved his life. In the silence, Garah heard the blade of her knife whistled in the air just inches from the Orc's throat.

"If you think I have gotten weak and frail, think again," Garah shouted all of them, "I will tear your limbs from your body if I have to survive. And survive I will."

She saw the flicker of fear in their eyes as they turned away. They all remembered what happened the last time she spoke threats and they had no desire to see if she could carry out this one. The three Orcs spat and snarled at her as they moved away and Garah sat back at her fire. She spent that entire night gazing in the flames with her hand gripped tightly on her blade.

The march was even more paced and brutal that the night before but still Garah gazed up at the stars and saw that the constellation 'The Scimitar' had its blade buried to the hilt in the horizon. She smiled to herself. Tonight was the night that the Hunters would return. Tonight was the night she would either reclaim her son, or lose him.

As the sun sank into the black line of the land Garah lifted her head and sniffed the air. A faint scent of blood drifted over the camp and the Orcs began to grunt and snarl softly with anticipation. Suddenly the soft padded drum of the dire wolves' paws were heard along with the heavy tread of the metal shod Orc Hunters. The camp was roaring as the riders and runners strode in dragging in game.

"Where is the Chief?" the Head Dire Wolf Rider called out. The Chief came to the fore.

"What is it Rugat?" the Chief asked.

Rugat smiled and nodded to one of his rider. The rider slipped down from his dire wolf and pulled down wrapped figures from the back on his wolf. The objects thudded onto the ground with heavy sounds and a sharp tang filled the air. The whole camp took deep breaths as one and then a low growl filled the camp as the Orcs voiced their pleasure.

"Man flesh," the Chief said with a horrible treble to his voice, "And where did you get man flesh, Rugat?"

"There was a small travelling group," Rugat said, "We ambushed them and brought the bodies back. It has been a while since we had a bit of good meat."

"Indeed," the Chief said walking over and stripping the wrapping off the bodies, "Which is the leader?"

Rugat moved to point the body, "This one."

"He lies," a voice spoke out and it was as if the sound of the world got sucked out in those two words. Garah smiled to herself and turned to face the direction of the voice. A shadow, darker than the night moved forward. A flash of silver flickered then went dark.

Azog strode into the camp. His broad, pale body was covered in this dark blood. The Orcs sniffed involuntarily at the sick, sweet stench of stale human blood.

"The group that they attacked was just a decoy," Azog said, "A ruse to let the leader and his charges get away."

"And what makes you think I would believe what you say," the Chief spat at him.

"I saw the ruse," Azog said as if the Chief had not spoken, "I followed them and I came upon them. I fought the human leader and I killed him. And as a reward I took his sword." With a swift motion Azog flicked the blade up and drove it into the ground. The top of the handle reached the top of his head. The slim blade was stained with the same dark blood that dressed his flesh.

The chief looked at the blade and began to laugh. Soon the whole camp joined him. Garah stood silent watching her son. He didn't flinch at the laughter. Instead a small smile seemed to play about his lips. Garah felt the expectation that had been building inside her begin to reach its peak. Whatever was going to happen would happen now.

"And what proof do you have?" the Chief said still laughing. Azog pulled out a small rucksack that was hanging at his hip. He reached in pulled out a head. The face was twisted in death but the nobility was still there etched into its frozen features. Garah had seen the face of the body that Rugat had said was the leader. It was nothing compared to this face. This was truly the head of the leader. The silence once again fell on the camp.

"How did you kill him?" the Chief asked but his voice sounded as if he was being choked.

Azog smiled and with the spread of his lips he lunged forward with a roar. All Garah saw as the kick of dirt and the changing of his eyes from clear to dark. The sound of his roar even shook her. A second later he stopped abruptly before the Chief. The flames of the fires illuminated him so that his body seemed to be glowing; a dark but living red. Azog then smiled a broad teeth baring smile and flicked his tongue out to lick the tips of his teeth.

It was a small thing, but everyone saw it. The tiny flinch back that the Chief did as Azog breathed hot stinking breath into his face with his black eyes fixed both on the past and the present. Then the Chief smiled back at him and lifted his hand to lay it on his head.

"Well done," he said but the gruffness of the voice did not hide the tremor. Garah smiled as he walked away.

Azog turned to face her and clear eyes latched onto her. He moved toward her and she felt the expectation turn into burning pride. He had done it. He had taken the step and all high and low had to acknowledge him now.

"You were right," he said, "I can take what I want. With a little courage, and wit. But it is not a little bloodshed mother." He gazed down at himself then back up at her, "It is a lot of bloodshed."

"That is true," Garah said, "Men bleed so much more than we do. It is almost a shame to see it all go to waste like that." Azog smiled at her as she led him back to their camp. Before they took a few steps a voice called their names.

Garah and Azog turned back to see a leg being flung at them. Garah caught it and nodded to the Orc who tossed it. The Orc nodded stiffly back and then returned to haggling with the others.

"Well dear," Garah said, "how about a bit of man flesh tonight?"

Azog licked his lips and nodded eagerly.


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HOBBIT

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Garah lay huddled in a small cave with Azog to her back. Her son had grown to be taller than her now and even more broad and strong. She glanced back and him and his clear eyed gaze caught her own dark ones. He smiled at her and she smiled back at him. She then turned her gaze back outward and sniffed the air. They had been travelling for quite some time following the mountains that lay north of Angmar. Many Orc groups like themselves would have been scattered through the land, each one taking their own path to find some place to call home. It had been a miracle plus careful scouting that till now they had not come across another Orc group. Even in Angmar; when they had banded under the dark power of the Witch King, there had been heated and violent discourse between Orc groups and the different factions. Garah held no illusions as to what will occur if two group met. The natural disharmony plus the even constant need for food and supplies would result in an all out battle. And those with the strongest orcs or the most orcs would win. Their group had started of fairly large, but the numbers had dwindled over the course of the travel. They had twenty or so DireWolf Riders and she did not check the number to fully trained warriors. But that did not matter really, everyone would have to fight if a meeting did occur. To not fight would mean to die, or worst.

She heard the short call of clearance and she and Azog slipped out of the cave and into the night. They slipped into the almost silent run along the slopes of the mountains. She glanced down and saw that the Orc Chief had chosen a dry rugged path. She grunted her approval of the choice, it would be hard going but it would cover their tracks easily. She lifted her nose as they ran and sniffed the air. She heard the soft but harsh intake of ai beside her.

"They are close," Azog said his deep voice low.

"Yes they are," Garah confirmed, watching off into the darkness of the grasslands below them. The moon was up but it provided nothing but a pitiful pale glow in the sky. It did nothing to help them see but then so too nothing could see them.

"How many do you think?" Azog asked, leaping and landing into running gait.

"For their scent to be this thick," Garah said sniffing again, "And for the pace to be taken over this terrain. I would say much more and much stronger than we are."

Azog flashed a smile at the obvious statement then frowned.

"If we meet," he said, "We would have to fight."

"If we meet," Garah said, "We will have to survive."

They both fell silent and Garah fingered her knife. She had no scimitar but she would take one once as warrior fell. She saw Azog finger the hilt of his blade and smiled in herself. She had trained him well. Their minds ran along the same lines now. They both knew that if they could smell the other group then the other group would have also smelt them. The only they could do was to hope to outrun them. But if the other group was a larger number and stronger, then this run was simply a way to put off the inevitable. They were most likely being tracked, surrounded, and baited into an ambush.

Garag glanced off again into the grasslands and caught it. The slight movement of a darker black against the black of the night. She sucked in her breath sharply. The time was close. She heard the soft sheen of blades being drawn up ahead and she nodded to Azog beside her. He slipped out his blade and held it close to him as he ran. At the same time she slipped out her knife and tucked it in close to her side. The heady feeling of fear and anticipation filled her. She risked one more glance up at her son. His clear eyes had already darkened. He looked down at her and smiled. A chill ran over her. She grinned back at him and offered a prayer to Melkor that her son would kill much tonight and that his fight real fight would have him bathed in the blood of his enemies.

'Let his tasted it, let him drink it," Garah muttered under her breath to the fallen Valar, "Let him grow drunk with it and never be satisfied.'

As the final word was uttered, the two groups clashed. They came out of the night like shadows and fell on them like rocks off the mountain. Garah screamed and thrust her blade into the belly of the first Orc that she met. She dragged the blade across, spilling black blood and guts on the earth. The Orc screeched and fell at her feet. She snatched up the fallen hooked sword and launched herself into the battle.

The DireWolf Riders were being targeted heavily and one by one Garah saw the Beast and Rider fall under a tide of large black Orcs. She hacked and slashed; severed arms, legs and heads. She pushed through the onslaught, her skin growing slick from the blood and body fluids of the Orcs that she killed. She gazed around frantically looking for Azog. And then she saw him.

He stood tall and pale and proud. His bearing alone was helping him hold his own against the enemy Orcs. She watched as he used his body weight to thrust off an attack and then to follow it up with clear, heavy strokes of the slim blade that he had taken from the human he had killed. It was no longer too long for him. It now looked like a thin beam of silver in his hand, but the blade was sharp and as strong, maybe even stronger than the weapons that they had. Yet he was just one Orc. One young Orc without the experience of battle and no one to watch his back. Garah began making her way toward her son when she saw the Orc moving towards Azog, cleaving his own and their Orcs from his path. Garah began to step up her fighting, struggling to reach her son in time. She called out to him, but her voice was drowned in the din of the battle. Three Orcs between her and Azog. She clave the head off one and the arm off the other. The second one, now one handed still defied her. She grunted and thrust him through. She side stepped his shallow swipe and dragged the sword from his body as she passed.

One more Orc between her and her son. This one was tall and broad and she parried his blows, screaming in frustration that they drove her away further. She risked a glance at Azog and was rewarded with a nasty gash to her arm from the enemy. She screamed against and ducked under his guard and came up within the ring of his arms. He looked mildly surprised as she drove the knife right up to the hilt in his face. He gurgled and fell back, taking her down with him. She wrung herself from his death grasp to see the other Orc was but a few steps from her son. The Orc raised his blade and leapt forward. Garah broke free and got to her feet and ran to her son's side. The blade came arching down. Garah slammed into Azog, tipping him sideways and causing him to lose his battle pace. But it was a small loss for her, as the blade that was intended for her son buried itself in her chest.

Pain exploded within her but she had no voice to express it. She fell back gapping silently into the night. She heard a faint roar above her and several body parts flew across her vision. Then there was her son kneeling over her, pulling her into his arms. He rocked her back and forth. His now clear eyes gleamed like diamonds. She reached up and touch his face, her own black blood smearing against the pale skin.

"Mother," he said, his deep voice broken.

"My son," Garah said, feeling the sluggishness of her throat to form the words. She was dying, but she was not in fear of death. Her son was alive and she had to make sure that he would continue to remain alive.

"My son," she said again, "Do not cry. Do not fear. Take all of it. Your fear and your pain and make it your covering. Wear it like armor and let it make you stronger." She took a deep shuddering breath and her vision blurred and dimmed. When it cleared again, she saw Azog eyes were dark again. But this time it was not a mindless darkening of bloodlust. But a cold calculating darkening.

"You have made me proud," she whispered, her voice now soft and harsh, "I am proud to call you my son. Grow strong and grow proud and never be satisfied."

With that her eyes dimmed for the last time and their light went out.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HOBBIT. **

**I apologize for the very late update. There were several reasons for it. (1) I was being a bit lazy because i had to plan alot for writing from Azog's point of view. It turned out to be both hard and easy at the same. (2) I had work. :) (3) I was hooked on the tv series Sherlock...so..i spent alot of time watching out both seasons. (4) I think i also went on vacation. **

**I also apologize for the short chapter. But i am now getting back into the groove of this fanfiction. So bear with me. More to come. **

* * *

Azog flung himself into the small cave. He grunted a bit as his shoulder scrapped against the hard cold rock. A wave of stale sweat, reeking fecal matter and bad breath washed over him as the others piled in after him. He was pressed hard into the back of the cave. He jabbed the Orc in front of him with the point of his mother's knife. The Orc took the hint and stood his ground, not allowing the other in front of him to press him into the blade of the knife. It had been almost two weeks since the skirmish that had taken his mother's life. Azog swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked away the blur of tears from his eyes. He would not cry. He had promised her that while she died in his arms. Instead he mentally took hold of the gut wrenching grief and wound around his soul, forming the first of his internal armour. He would get stronger, he would take control, and he would become great. But first of all he needed to survive.

The movement of orc into the cave stopped and the silence was deafening as they listened for any sound of their pursuers. The Orcs that had attacked them had been running them down; playing with them. The Attacking Party would engage them in small skirmishes and then stay, eat the dead and captives while allowing Azog's group to gain a few days head start. Then the Attacking Party would repeat the process. Over the past two weeks there had been a dozen or so of these hunting skirmishes. It was almost as if Azog's group was like a pack of deer being leisurely pursued by a band of hunters. The rage, fear and humiliation boiled inside his chest. But he could do nothing but run, hide and fight. They themselves had resorted to eating their own for they had not been able to stop for food. Those who were not able to keep up with the brutal pace that the Chief had set, were killed and eaten on the run. Azog had grown accustomed to running with a blade in one hand and a body part in the other.

He tried to see to the front of the cave but his sight was blocked. Plus any slight movement caused a wave of stench to ripple through the cave. After what seemed like hours he heard a short screech while was the signal for all clear. The Orc flooded out of the cave and out into the twilight of the morning.

Azog inhaled and then snorted. The wind was cold. He looked around at the other Orcs, whose breath were misting lightly in the air. He looked up at the mountains on the right of them. He had no idea where they were but he had a feeling that this was not a place he wanted to be. A low shout called his attention and the group moved to congregate about the Chief. The Chief raised his hand and the group came to a stop. Azog felt the cold air waft around him like a blanket. He forced himself not to shiver.

"Those damn Orcs have been herding us," the Chief said and spat into the ground beside him, "We've been made to move north."

The silence that fell over the group was even worse than the one in the cave. That silence was a silence of expectation with a glimmer of hope. But this silence… this silence was fear and hopelessness. He looked confused at the stern faces of his fellow orcs.

"So we have a sort of choice here," the Chief said, "We can either turn west and head into Ardor. But we run the risk of being hunted out completely. Or we can keep heading North, following the mountains and head across the Forodwaith and into the Northern Waste. Continue heading along the mountains and find a passage back into Angmar or Rovanion."

The silence from before deepened. _The Northern Waste_. The name alone sent chills down his spine. He seized those chills and bound them like strands of steel into his soul. Another layer was weaved into his internal armor.

"Take a few seconds and choose," the Chief said, "I will head into the Northern Waste. I will not be hunted any longer."

Azog's mind was already made up before the others dared to venture forth an answer to the choice that lay before them. He looked at the faces of the other Orcs and knew that the group would split almost as certainly as he knew that those who would not follow them would die before the week was up. And split it did. The Chief made no announcement. He simply rose and began running again as if he had never given them a choice. Azog ran after him, listening to the sound of footsteps falling away from him and knowing that he would never see them again.

It took them a week of constant running to reach the edge of the Forodwaith. A plain of low hills was to the their left as the small group of 100 Orcs stood chilled with misting breaths at the last of the mountains that formed the Northern border of Angmar. The Chief stared for a long time across the Forodwaith then without warning continued his running. It took another four days before they crossed the Forodwaith and entered the Northern Waste.

Azog watched in awe and fascination at the glaring white land that lay before him. The light reflecting off the snow hurt his eyes even more than the sunlight. He grunted and flung his hand up to shield them. Every movement was accompanied by a gust of cold air about his limbs. Plus the snow had seeped into his boots and his feet felt like ice. The Chief led them at the base of the Mountains. The scouts that had been sent ahead shouted out to indicate that they had found caves to wait out till the night. Azog was feeling numb and hungry as they stumbled into the snow lined caves. Further to the back the snow thinned out and became normal rock. But it was still icy cold to the touch. Fires were made and stored away limbs were taken out for food.

As Azog chewed on his leg, his eyes were fixed on the glare of the snow from the mouth of the cave. The Northern Waste; the home of ice and frost and the famed land of the Ice Drakes. Azog felt a smile cross his pale face. He felt in a way that this land was his; pale, cold and deadly like himself. He felt that in that land, somehow and in some way, he would begin to truly find himself.


	7. Author's Note

Hey to everyone. I will be taking a break from writing my fanfictions for a while because of 2 reasons. The first being that i have exams coming up and I NEED to study. The second being that the stories are both going in directions that i am not pleased with and despite me writing chapters over and over, it is just not working out. I am not giving up on them, because i love my stories, but i need to take a break, re-evaluate what i am doing wrong and continue from there.

Thanks alot for your support for the past chapters. I will return! Hope you all have a great time reading and writing.

Take care and keep safe.

ChaosWithImagination. :)


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